Rookie
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: I'm the apple that didn't fall far from the tree. I barely rolled further than the roots. AU-ish Future Fic
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** chance a glance at a great cause #ThankYouTerri on twitter

or www . YoungStoryTellers . com (slash) thankyouterri (slash)

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><p>"<em>Roo-kie, Roo-kie, Roo-kie."<em>

The chant is loud over the misty swirl of music and the hum of other patrons. Fists pound on the bar in time with each drawn out syllable, pushing the cacophonous roar so it strains just on the _right_ side of bearable. The wood is old and it creaks under the abuse from those around me but I laugh despite myself because the enthusiasm is _infectious_.

I laugh, but I kinda hate the way their fists rebound on the surface, how their drinks splash and spill. Most of all I hate the way one guy in particular throws his weight around, catching my eye when he kicks up his feet on the barstool I just vacated. _Arrogant ass!_

He smiles and gestures to the seat, suggesting he'll move if I really want it back, but I lose sight of him quickly, my interest drawn away by the noise around me. He'll keep!

It's not just the noise though, it's the casual - albeit unknowing - disregard for the memories I have tied up in _every inch_ of this place that get to me. I don't begrudge them their excitement, how can I when I feel it too. I'm fully aware that they have no idea what exactly it is they're pounding their fists into. And when I've wanted this moment for longer than I can remember, I get carried away right along with them. Doesn't mean it's not just a little grating every time they do it.

I take a deep breath and try to let the feeling go, take it in at the same time, exist in the two extremes at once, because the atmosphere _is _intoxicating, drugging. Nervous energy zips through the room so the guys - my colleagues now, fellow officers - reach for each other, offering back slaps and verbal abuse, dark humour and fist bumps, and I get so caught up in the moment I smile despite my trepidation.

I blow the shallow breath out through my lips, raising a hand to someone I know, I get a nod in response, dismissive and curt so I turn my back on them, curling a strand of my short, dark hair behind my ear to hide my face. It buys me a few seconds to look around the room, to think about my next move and my eyes flicker rapidly to take everything in.

Dad used to say it was my tell, that I had _no_ poker face when I was anxious. He's right and I gotta fix that. I gotta stop gnawing on my lip and fiddling with the things that find their way into my hands. Mom told me once I'm fidgety, like she was at my age. A fidgety cop with no poker face sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, so I guess I'm pretty screwed up all around.

I smile again, drop my hand and slip my thumb into the pocket of my jeans to keep my fingers steady, stop my palms from shaking, hiding my nervousness as best I can. Trying to start as I mean to go on.

It's pathetic that I'm scared shitless isn't it? These people have given me a gun, thrust the life of the city I call home into my hands for safe keeping, and I'm standing on the outer edges petrified I'm gonna throw up on myself when they demand the next round of shots.

I'm the person these people are trusting with their lives? To back them up and be their partner? Seriously?

At least one of these poor losers is gonna be saddled with me after training and my hands are _shaking_. Okay, I might have an unfair advantage, but nothing and _no one _prepares you for _this_!

I take another deep breath to calm down, reminding myself that I've wanted this, craved it, waited for this very moment in time for what feels like forever and the clench in my stomach, self belief and doubt in an eternal battle, can go to hell, as I pray once again that I just don't throw up.

I'm hard on myself, I have to be. I don't want to screw up. In this bar frequented by cops (and sometimes my dad) if I do something stupid or embarrassing (or knowing me, _both_) I'll never live it down. Especially today.

I can't throw up. I repeat it over and over again as the loud mouth one with green eyes shouts my name and calls me over. He waves his fingers and grins like we're buddies and we're not. We have a - ugh - complicated past and pretending not to know his name might be insane but it's really helping me, so I'm going with it. Self delusion is only a problem if you're not aware of it, right?

A few of the others turn to get a look at me when he shouts and I raise a hand hoping he'll shut the hell up. Top in most classes at the academy and making a name for myself already, yeah I know most of the eyes in this room look at me with hatred. I couldn't give a fuck! I love this work, I can tell already, can feel it everyday with every training exercise, that it's going to be something I'm _good_ at.

I smile as I draw closer to the main group, hiding away the naive little girl I feel like they all see - twelve years old, in shiny new shoes - and repeat my mantra once again. Do. Not. Throw. Up!

Nicknames are being thrown around thick and fast tonight, a weird sense of belonging and camaraderie throwing caution to the wind and I refuse to have one associated with vomit. It would work too well with my name, the perfect fucking alliterative concoction and the one with green eyes is watching me creepily - he does that a lot - as if he can read my mind and knows exactly what I'm thinking, knows what words and facial expressions combined together will best annoy me. It'd be him who suggested it first, of that I have no doubt.

He'd love it when I blushed, getting flustered. So, I'm simply not gonna give him the satisfaction. I turn away trying to ignore the warmth in my stomach generated by his gaze and I throw out my elbows to get through the crowds.

There's a small space for me to fit into as we're lined up along the bar, shot glasses in a neat and practised line before us, interspersed with beer bottles including my own. The guys either side of me - including the one I'm steadfastly ignoring - have kinda taken me in, claiming me as a member of their weird little group.

With the combined efforts of my dad, brother, uncles and unpteen cousins I have a fairly decent insight into the male ego. Thanks to my mom, sister, and seriously scary aunts, I have no compunction to sit idly by and stroke it.

I give as good as I get and I fit with this group, I _like_ this group. For some strange reason they like me too.

They call us to order and I swallow thickly, jumping when someone smacks me on the back. Clearly it's gonna be a team effort. _Knock one back and slam it down, tip the glass and pass it around_. First rookie to hurl pays the tab and that _will not_ be me.

See, I have a slight inside edge, I remember mom talking me through this before I left for college. Not the _hazing ritual_ but the _drinking in bars with boys_, dad frowning on the sidelines until she threw a casual _back off _glare in his direction. She wanted me to be prepared and able to take care of myself, to be smart and sensible and _safe_, so she didn't pretend I wouldn't, or lecture me I shouldn't, she just sat me down and walked me through the whole thing.

I've eaten today so that's good - as long as I don't throw up - loaded up on carbs as instructed. I've got an empty beer bottle to swig from, looking like a full one where it hovers by my shot glass, and every other drink they knock back I spit out, giggling and spluttering along with the rest of them. It's pretty simple really. They're on five and I'm on three and it might be cheating, but tonight I don't care.

I'm already battling the knowledge that my mother could drink every one of these idiots under the table - myself included - if she were here, doing this, she'd be better at it than me. Hell, my dad would be better at it than I am, but I have a point to prove.

On the count of three we raise our drinks to the person on our right, slam the glasses on the bar and throw the alcohol into our mouths, passing the empties off to the person on the left. We tip our hats to the full and the drained dry, honouring the people who will be our partners in good times and bad. It might sound stupid, might be a little predictable, but it's tradition, and I like it.

The burn is immediate, thick like syrup but nowhere near as sweet, and it cascades down my throat almost choking me, but I whoop along with everyone else, shouting my badge number and tipping the glass, now in my hand, upside down on the bar as I do.

The human tank next to me growls, throwing his hand up as he highfives me and laughter bubbles up outta nowhere as I slam my hand into his. He pumps his fist and whirls away, leaving me with the guy with an arrogant smirk and smouldering green eyes.

I brace myself and bite back a smile, he thinks he has moves when he sidles closer, one arm slung casually over the back of my chair. I know his moves, been down this road before and yeah we kissed, _once_, but I still try to ignore him, telling myself the buzz through my system is the alcohol and nothing more.

Our eyes catch, even though I don't mean them to, and he leans in closer as if the haphazard locking of our pupils was an open invitation. It was not!

"I'm on to you." He hums, pleased with himself as he throws his feet up on the barstool again. It brings his knees into contact with my thigh and I'm tempted to kick out at the chair leg with my boot and knock him on his smug ass.

I don't, but I do roll my eyes. It's a habit I've gotten into that I really need to break, but the heat of the alcohol and the weight of the last few weeks finally falling away are stampeding over my defenses. I even forget about breaking bad habits and curl that wayward strand of hair behind my ear again.

"What?" I release the word with venom, or try to at least. I fill my voice with as much distaste as I can muster because, yes, I know who I'm talking to, even if I pretend - and have pretended all evening - that I don't.

We were neck and neck on everything at the academy, if I was first he was second and vice versa. I handle a gun better than he can and he runs just that bit faster, he bench presses more than me too obviously - I mean look at his arms! We're rivals but more than that, he's annoying as hell! He gets under my skin. And yes, we kissed, and yes, I remember his fingers in my hair and over my face, the way his smile got softer when he said I had beautiful eyes. I remember all of those things - every little detail - that doesn't mean I'm going to acknowledge any of it.

I shake my head and wait him out as he leans in closer, grinning again, I hear my mom's voice in my head.

_Sometimes arrogance is a smoke screen. What you need to work out is whether it's worth the effort to look beyond it._

"You're cheating." He whispers and he sounds so happy, his head tipping towards my beer bottle and I scoff, trying to throw him off, reaching before he can to pull the warm glass into my chest for protection against his accusations. I move too slowly and he traps my hand around the glass, holding my eyes as he does.

"Aren't you? Not every drink, but enough that you stay clear headed when the rest of us are partying with the green fairies."

"We're drinking whiskey," I state, yanking my hand out from under his, "not absinthe," and I turn to leave but find myself angling back, wanting to leave him with a little dig of my own. "Perhaps you shouldn't drink with the big boys if you can't _handle_ it."

His mouth falls open then he smirks, one lip quirking up and his eyes dancing with delight, they roam my body as if he's remembering _handling _something else entirely and heat flares through me, sharp and precise.

"You really think you're something special, don't you." He grins, throws the words out to trip me up.

Dropping my eyes so my lashes shadow my cheeks, with confidence that comes from nowhere and the words right there on the tip of my tongue, I can't resist throwing them back at him, "You have no idea."

He laughs, watching me walk away and even though my face is burning with the knowledge his eyes are on me, I throw a little extra sway into my hips, determined not to look back.

I keep walking, pressing the backs of my cold hands to my scalding cheeks as I do and I get as far as the end of the bar before a hand lands on my shoulder.

"Hey, _rookie_."

I jump, knowing the voice immediately, my body snapping to attention at the presence of the captain. He points beyond where I stand and gestures to the group - the guy - I left behind me.

"Having a good night?" He grins, his eyes twinkling.

I blush, heat rushing straight up my neck to my cheeks, and blurt out "Yes sir" so formally I may as well have saluted and clicked my heels for his approval. He laughs and waves me off when my cell chimes in my pocket - thank you _universe_ for _that_ well timed interruption - and I smile, covering one ear as I step into a darkened corner for as much quiet as is ever gonna be available here.

"Hey." I answer, smiling into my palm and curling around my phone with a grin, the same grin I always wear when I talk to him.

"Hey, kid listen, you got about ten minutes before this hits the press and I'm gonna talk fast so you don't freak out when it does."

Fear snaps my spine into firm rigidity and I rock off the heels of my boots, rising to my full 5ft 10" frame, braced for the impact of the words that will follow.

"Dad?" I grip the phone in white knuckled panic but it doesn't go beyond the crushing feel of my fingers. I am my parents daughter in that much at least, a deep breath and stoic expression, my voice doesn't even shake as I wait.

"Mom's been shot."

The world kinda fades out after that. Probably shock, but we've been here before.

When your father is a renowned writer and your mother is an infamous ex-cop turned would-be senator _drama_ tends to be a daily occurrence. For most families this would be a life altering moment, but for the Beckett-Castle's this is just another Friday night.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm being flippant. Of course I'm being flippant, my mom's just been shot, so yeah, I'm joking with my own inner voice because we all have our coping mechanisms, and right _now_ I'm borrowing my Dad's.

_Mine_ would involve a shitload of tequila and the largest slice of chocolate cake I could lay my hands on, but there is no time for self indulgence when my mom could be -

I whisper when I ask, can't quite find it in myself to speak up, "Is she -"

"Oh, shit." His voice breaks and for a second my heart drops straight through the heels of my borrowed leather boots, "I'm sorry, she's- " he coughs to cover it, " - fine." It sounds like a question though, like he's not sure. He clears his throat and tries again, "She _will_ be fine, they're running tests right now, but - I should have started with that."

"Ya think!" I choke out a laugh, clinging to the sound of his voice and the small relief that courses through my body because of it.

He huffs one back too, the pitiful sound probably all he can muster, but it's enough, that familial trait of clinging to humor in times of adversity reminding me _I'm_ the apple that didn't fall far from the tree. I barely rolled further than the roots.

"What happened?" My voice is raspy with emotion, the back of my throat burning, and I swallow hard to clear it so dad doesn't hear, "Was it - was it because of the speech?"

It was supposed to be the first step in her campaign tonight, the annual speech she gives at my grandmothers benefit the perfect opportunity - as she talks about justice and the future - to declare it _officially_. But it makes no sense because no one was supposed to know, at least not until she _said_ the words.

He doesn't answer. The line is muffled and I can hear him talking, conferring with a doctor or a nurse as my heart races, and I hear him say firmly, "Yes, my wife."

There's a pause and more muffled talking, my lip hurts as I chew it but I can't bring myself to stop, then dad speaks again, "She did? Really?" and then more muted silence as he listens to someone talk long and low for a minute or two.

I'm practically vibrating with desperation as I wait, fingers burning around my phone, the tips of my fingers are going numb. He says my name and I freeze.

There's a few seconds pause before I hear him breathe, _really_ breathe, and laugh.

"Dad?"

"She asked about you." He says quietly, humor back in his voice, and I bite down on my lip when my eyes well with tears. "Wanted to know if you were drunk yet." Shit, I cannot cry right now, here of all places, and I turn my back to the shouts of those around me. Oblivious, my fellow classmates are lining up another row of shot glasses on the bar and I need to get the hell out of here. Fast.

"I'll come." I promise, knowing the argument that's about to follow, but I don't care, the adult in me wants to be there for support but the little kid in me just really wants to know my mom's okay, to hug my dad. But he's gonna fight it, I can already tell by the way he draws breath slowly, I can picture the firm set of his jaw and the way his eyes widen a little to plead in silence.

I may as well be twelve and about to be grounded.

The thing is, they were so adamant about tonight, so excited on my behalf after all the work I put in, and believe me it was not easy. So knowing they're proud of me and -

"She doesn't want you to miss out, she sai-"

"Dad." I cut him off, "I'm coming." I can hear the hesitancy down the line and I switch tone to force the issue. He likes to tease it's the _Beckett_ in me and fine, if I gotta pull out the big guns to make him back down on this, I will. Screw initiation, my mom's in the hospital and - shit - it drives through me so suddenly my hands shake - I really need to leave.

"Where?"

Dad gives me the name of the hospital and offers to send the car but I can't wait, I need to move and take action myself. Just like my mom. I take after her I guess, we really are fidgety sometimes.

I give him my love, proud when I keep my voice steady, and ask him to pass it over to mom too when she's back from whatever tests the doctors have sent her for. I can hear in his voice that he's relieved I'm coming, even if he won't say it out loud.

When I was seven mom got shot pretty bad, through and through during a take down with a suspect, he got the drop on her and the bullet nicked her liver. Dad said he liked having us as back-up when mom pushed too hard for a faster recovery, that he could pull the old _but Kate, think of the children_ routine and mom would eventually - usually - see sense.

He jokes about it now, because distance from it means he can, but I remember the pain in his eyes, the worry. I remember the way he'd sit up alone at night with a glass of scotch and his head in his hands and I can't bear to leave him alone to go through that again.

I end the call with a kiss, taking a deep breath to touch my fingers to his picture before slipping the phone into my back pocket. I swallow down a mouthful of air and make a quick assessment, my eyes darting around the room.

My jacket is still draped over my seat and I know my wallet is in the pocket, I need it to pay for a cab but I gotta run the gauntlet of rookies and cops before I can grab it and sneak out.

I know there's a T.V above the bar too, I was there when dad and Uncle Ry installed the thing, and it's usually tuned into a sports station, but occasionally it's a news channel and I _really_ want to be gone before my mom's face appears up there for everyone to see.

I don't want their pity and I _really_ don't want the attention.

It's stupid but I drop my head, as if that makes me suddenly invisible, letting the dark sweep of my hair hide me away from prying eyes. Like I said _stupid_, but it helps and I creep along the far side of the bar to make my escape.

I know this place like the back of my hand, I've been coming here since before I was born. No lie, there's a picture of mom - pregnant with me - laughing and playing pool up behind the bar, dad won that argument somehow and it's been there ever since. My darling brother likes to tell anyone who'll listen that I was most likely conceived in the office downstairs. The point is, I know my way around, so there's no excuse for the utterly moronic miscalculation that puts me right in _his_ path and stops any chance I have of making a quick getaway.

"Hey, Castle." I jump at his voice, it still freaks me out when people call me _that_ instead of using my first name. Cop thing. Mom swears I'll get used to it.

"You sneaking off?" He laughs, tipping sideways to lean against the wall. folding his arm across his chest and making this _face_, like he expects nothing less, his green eyes crinkling when he shakes his head and smirks, "What was all the talk about _playing with the big boys_ if you're gonna bail on us early? Huh? I didn't even get a chance to drink you under the table."

He leans in just shy of me needing to shove him away, his arm on the wall next to my head blocking my escape. He stares down at me like he expects me to just offer up all the answers to questions, bear my soul for his amusement. I roll my eyes, I can't help it and I don't have time for this, for his charm or premeditated banter, so I duck under his elbow, ignoring him. He's quick though and I've barely taken a step before he's whirling around and putting his body between me and the exit.

He does that a lot, uses his body as a barrier, one time in training at the academy he pulled me behind him, I get why he does it - he's huge - but it still pisses me off.

"Castle, Castle, Castle." He mocks, shaking his head, dragging out my name with a hiss. He shakes his head everytime he says it and seriously? Should his voice be this aggravating?

I shake off my annoyance and blink past the force of his stare, I need to leave. I could just knock him out cold. It might _sound_ drastic, but it doesn't _feel_ it. Part of me really needs to punch something and we've sparred once before. I remember his weaknesses - right knee and left side lower rib - and it would certainly be faster than _this_, but I'm _trying_ not to draw attention to myself and as much as I'm sure people would cheer I'm fairly certain knocking him on his ass would earn a few stares in our direction.

The truth is my eyes are burning, my head is pounding and my gut is a barbed wire mess of worry. I'm sure she's fine but I need to see for myself. I just ... I really want my mom.

I don't know what it is exactly that he sees when our eyes catch again - another sure sign I need to work on my poker face - but for a moment he falls silent. I could pass out with shock, because that never happens, like never ever, since I've known him, has he not rambled on about something or other. Yet he holds the look between us for the longest second of my life before stepping in close, closer than he was before, and breathing out quietly. "Harley, what happened?"

Maybe it's the use of my first name that does it, that sudden familiarity reserved for family and friends when I've been _Castle_ for weeks. Maybe it is that simple intimacy because without warning I'm spilling secrets, forgetting completely that I don't do that. My voice low and quaking with tears I refuse to shed, "My mom was shot."


	3. Chapter 3

"Shit." He mutters under his breath, running a hand over his forehead and I see genuine concern flood his face, then he's utterly silent again and not ... demanding _anything_.

I thought he'd have questions. I thought he'd pester me for details, wanting the in's and out's and the whole sorry story that _I _don't even know yet. He doesn't. He stays silent.

I draw in a sharp breath, saying the words out loud - _my mom's been shot_. It turns my stomach over in disgust. All my earlier worry about vomiting is catching up with me, my stomach throwing tumble turns, rolling harshly. I wonder if the others would let it go if they knew the real reason behind it?

I scoff, horrified with myself for even thinking it, using my mom as an excuse, and the noise of disgust I make catches his attention.

When he looks down at me, thoughtful, his forehead creases and his eyes narrow and for once I have no idea what he's thinking. Usually there is some indication in his behaviour, or in the things he says. Sometimes our eyes will meet and I'll know exactly what he's about to say before he says it, but I've never seen him look at me like this before. I've never seen him look like _this_, period.

His hand hovers over my arm as our eyes meet, like he wants to touch me, as if he needs to pull me in for a hug, and I've never been more grateful in my life than when he changes his mind and pulls it back.

I have to blink hard so I don't cry, biting on my cheek as I look up at him because _sympathy_ - fuck - is the last thing I need. A kind word or the touch of his hand on my shoulder and I will lose it completely.

Fuck, shit, fuck.

I want to scream and yell and utter every expletive, curse and dirty word I know, every one that would have mom pinching my ear if she heard them come out of my mouth, even though most of them were learned from her. I want to cry my eyes and my heart out right here in the dark corner of my parents bar, but I refuse to do it. So he can't, he _cannot_ touch me and try to take my pain away. I won't survive it.

He breathes out hard, nostrils flaring, and he nods. I think he gets it because he steps back, presses his lips into a thin, white line and palms his neck, rubbing hard and muttering under his breath. He doesn't like it at all, but he does get it.

Thank god.

"What do you need?" He asks suddenly, turning to face me. When I don't move or answer he looks away, like he doesn't know what else to say or do and when he throws his gaze around the room, like he can't bring himself to look at me, I expect him to make his excuses and leave.

There's a part of me that wants it, the isolation, craves it even. So, when he stalks away for a split second, I'm relieved, but then the thought of him going -

He doesn't leave.

Instead he's back, about as close as is _almost_ decent in the middle of a bar, whispering, "I'm sorry."

Whether it's in apology for his question, his next act or for my mom and current state, I have no idea. My mouth opens and he grabs my hand, hard, wrapping his fingers around mine, pulling me after him, taking off across the room without looking back.

He walks fast and I skip to keep pace, narrowly avoiding a table and clinging to him with every step.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't slow down or even look at me.

The grip of his fingers and fierce strength of his stride pull me along even as I try to wrench my hand free. He's resistant though, his fingers biting into my knuckles as he drags us straight through the middle of the bar - close enough that I can grab my jacket, thank god - with absolutely no preamble or surreptitious plan.

He thinks things through about as much as I do, clearly, and I growl under my breath cos I could have done _this _by myself. Thanks to his caveman routine staying under the radar is going to be nigh on impossible.

He marches us right into the center of the commotion, drinks tipping, waitresses moving, people either side of us shouting and laughing as we storm through the middle of them hand in hand.

Someone wolf whistles and it sends heat straight to my cheeks, I blush, turning angry eyes on the crowd 'til they land on the source. He might be a _tank_ but I can take him down if I have to. He knows it too, I can tell by the way he flinches when my eyes land on him.

I hate being stared at, and it's the last thing on earth that I should be worrying about, as _he_ drags us closer to the door, but I'm _really_ pissed off these idiots actually think I'm ducking out early to screw around with _him_.

We kissed once at the academy, we're not a couple, we're not a team or partners. We're not anything, _especially_ not right _now_.

But it bothers me how easily he gets under my skin, how the heat of his palm is scorching my own and making me want to hold on tighter. It bothers me that it's the wrong fucking time to be thinking about kissing him yet, every time we're face to face, my eyes keep going back to his lips.

We move and I stumble, caught up in memory and annoyance and _tank_ needing a firm kick in the backside. I'm not graceful or dainty and when I'm distracted I'm a walking disaster so I slam into his shoulder with enough force to rattle my teeth. He's too tall, broader than me, all annoying confined muscle and ridiculously restrained power that I shouldn't be thinking about in the middle of a family crisis.

My fingers squeeze around his arm for support, my thumb flicking out of its own accord when it lands on skin and I know he's watching me but I stay focused on the crowd. I don't know what the hell is happening but I do know _now_ is not the time for it.

When I spot the captain watching from across the room my nails dig into his palm and I feel him flinch.

In that split second, when our eyes lock, I know the captain knows.

He's stunned, frozen with it, knowledge unwanted, but he looks at me with tenderness and worry. He's my captain yes, but in the moment he's also very much my godfather, my Uncle Ry, the man whose house I've had sleepovers in.

My fingers grip tighter, suddenly I'm not the only one staring across the room at a captain who will _always_ be _more_ than a boss to me.

He's the man who used to hide gummi bears in his bottom desk drawer for me and my brother, sneaking them to us behind my dad's back. He'd always give me extras to palm off to my mom before dad could steal them.

He's _family_, and as he looks back at me with concern, anguish void of his features but _bleeding_ from his eyes, I _know_ he knows.

Of course he knows. Of course he would get the call.

I feel an odd sense of relief that he was informed because that means on some weird twisted level everything is _normal_. Our version of normal. My fingers slack off and when he nods to the door and holds up his phone I nod back, ushering my unwanted protector ahead of me.

The message from Ryan is clear, get out of here but keep in touch. I don't mess with their rules.

They're a weird group, my parents and their friends, tight knit and yeah, their dynamic is beyond strange but in times of _crisis_ they _rally_.

I've seen it first hand a million times as a kid, being part of it now, as an adult, is terrifying!

I feel like I'm being inducted into the inner circle. It's ridiculous, but he waves the phone again, looks to me like I know what to do, and deep down it suddenly feels like _this_ is my true initiation. Not some stupid drinking game in the bar.

When he calls the others to order, grabbing their attention and giving us a chance to escape I let out a sigh of relief and allow myself to be guided through the door.

The night air hits us hard when we burst onto the sidewalk, goosebumps erupting up my arms instantly, but I'm so pleased to be free and on my way that I barely notice. His fingers are warm wrapped around my own, easing some of the chill, and I don't immediately pull away when he steps out.

I should but I don't, instead I hold on tighter, ignoring how much I enjoy the feel of his hand holding mine.

We merge with the people on the street, moving fast once again, but unlike back at the bar I find out here, with purpose, my stride fits comfortably with his. We keep pace easily, in time.

He squeezes my hand now and then as we weave through pedestrians, the feeling of comfort so unnerving everytime he does that I'm torn between the urge to shake him loose and pull my jacket on and the desire to hold on tight and curl into his side.

The distance might allow me to garner some courage as we proceed because, as I follow him through the crowds, I realise I have no idea how much of my reaction is based on the fact my mom's been shot and how much of it is just because of _him_.

He's been getting under my skin since day one at the academy and this caring, kindness _thing_ he's got going on tonight is throwing me off.

He stops suddenly and I do too, taking the chance to pull my hand away and put on my jacket, scanning the streets for a cab. I feed my fingers through my pockets and breathe more steadily when they skim my wallet. I have a plan and a means to reach my mom and dad, now I just have to put it into action.

The automatic _beepbeep _ makes me jump and I whirl around to find him standing next to a parked car, holding the door open.

I gape when he speaks, "Get in, I'm driving."

"Like hell you are."

I throw myself closer and I stare him down like he's lost his mind, he probably has. "How much have you had to drink?" I reach out and yank the keys from his hands, not giving an inch when he starts to protest.

"Hey," is as far as he gets. I fold my arms across my chest and I stand my ground. But I'm tired and the night is nipping at my heels. It feels like trial by fire to earn my stripes, and right now I'm more than a little bit _burnt_ at both ends.

I want my mom, I want this night to _not_ be happening. I want to _not_ be standing on a street corner dealing with an idiot with a hero complex and a devil may care attitude toward public safety.

I'd steal his keys and drive myself, but the whiskey is still burning the back of my throat - the swirl of emotion churning in my stomach - and I'm not an idiot. I could ditch the keys and hail a cab, leave him on the street, but I won't.

I'm green when it comes to things like this, him and the way I react in his presence, rookie through and through, and, as I'm forcibly educated about the stresses and strains of being a member of my parents inner circle, I feel the blood start to pound behind my eyes, loudly in my ears, tiredness and frustration starting to get to me.

As our standoff persists - folded arms across both our chests now - he locks eyes with me and I level him with a look I learned from my mom, designed to freeze the blood in his veins.

Apparently I suck at it.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you for taking the time to read and review.

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><p>"How much?" I repeat, trying not to grit my teeth, eyes wide and unblinking to stare him down. I don't need another tell or bad habit to break. But it's getting harder the longer we stand here for me to maintain my composure.<p>

I've been told I have a quick temper and I don't think it's true. What I have is a tolerance level, I can put up with things to a point, but once that line is crossed I have a tendency - according to my dad - to go a bit _Becketty_.

I'm fast approaching that point now.

When I was younger it was tantrums and door slamming, now? Oh, I'd quite like to punch him. Or throw something at his head.

I feel like my skin is vibrating with frustration, I suck at waiting. I'm starting to forget that so far he's been _somewhat_ helpful because he's severely pissing me off.

And I know he does that, he has right from the moment we met, when he took the pen out of my hand and asked to borrow my notes. Worming into my personal space and upsetting my routines. Then it was, maybe, kinda cute. But now, I don't have time for this crap. Yet all of that seems to go over his head as he stares me down, doesn't even flinch under the force of my well practiced glare.

He cannot possibly be the only person able to resist it.

He leans in closer, clearly not sensing danger either when he drops a hand to the roof of his car and closes the distance between us.

We're barely breathing space apart now, surrounded by people making their way home, but everything is suddenly _quiet_.

He sighs, and it's _deafening_.

His eyes close as he blinks and when they open again they meet mine with sincerity.

The force of it is shocking.

This look I know, I've seen it before, once.

At the academy, when we kissed, it was pitch black and the running track was behind us, the dark night leaking into his pupils as he watched me. There was hardly any movement to it, just the sudden closeness of his body, his hand at my jaw and the way he looked into my eyes.

I freeze and hold my breath.

All words of protest die on my tongue right then, memories racing hotly through me, because it _burns_ when he looks at me like this, my skin is on fire with the force of it.

Truth.

For whatever reason I trust him, I have for a while and that look alone makes me believe him when he replies, "Less than you."

I swallow hard, almost forgetting my own question, and I push away from the car, I need that space back between us. He reaches out to stop me walking away with a sharp tug on my elbow and when I look confused he elaborates, barely.

"Let's just say you weren't the only one _cheating_." He holds his hands up innocently and smiles all schoolboy charm and seductive lip curl, "I swear, sober as the day is long."

I start to protest but he cuts me off, my narrowed eyes no defense against his incessant need to _talk over me_. "Harley!" His voice is firm as he speaks my name and quiet when he asks, "What hospital did they take your mom too?"

It's enough, the way he asks, the way he looks, to convince me. Maybe I am naive - green little girl in my shiny new shoes once more - but I believe him. I don't know why, but I do.

I trust my gut.

I trust _him_.

I hold out my hand so he can slide the key from my finger, telling him where to go, surprised again when he doesn't immediately bombard me with questions or incessant jibber jabber. The fierce thud behind my temples is starting to drown out his annoying habits and right now if he did start talking, I doubt I would find it unpleasant.

He gestures for me to go ahead and I step around him fast, moving before he can open my door. The chivalry act doesn't sit right, his proximity bothers me and reminds me of things I _don't _want to be thinking about.

I just wanna be on the road.

I wanna see my mom.

I buckle my seat-belt and slam the door, opening the window in an effort to clear my head. I stare out at the flicker of city life and see nothing, lost in my own thoughts. If the night had gone as planned, I should be half way to drunk by now, not worrying about -

"Wanna talk about it?"

His voice startles me, when I look up the twinkle of light passing his face distracts me from my inner ramble. I watch each flicker caress his face in the dark confines of his car, pretending to stare past him, unfocused. But I know he's watching, waiting for an answer I don't have.

Do I want to talk?

I don't honestly know but it doesn't seem to matter, he doesn't give me much of a chance to decide before he starts firing questions at me.

"What happened? Did they say? Do you need to call your brother and sister?" His eyes dart from the road and back again quick enough to be missed, but I catch it, catch the concern that seems genuine - again, weirdly - and I swivel in my seat to face him.

Today is just one great big mess of confusion. And pain, worry, a little drama - alright a lot of drama - and I sigh as quietly as I can because I suppose these are things I should be preparing myself for - _adulting effectively_ dad calls it - but somehow I think the universe would be okay with cutting me a little slack right now.

"Dad probably already called Lex," I finally answer him, as honestly as I can, "My brother's out of the country," I sigh, missing him suddenly, "and the rest ... I don't know."

The cop in me - as new and fledgling as she may be - gets riled at that. I _hate_ not knowing the details, the background, the _story_. "I asked, but dad was dealing with doctors and ..."

I trail off, not really knowing what else to say, what else to think, and the silence that descends is fleeting and thin, ready to break under the strain of awkwardness that exists between us. I'm almost relieved when he starts talking again even if it's not what I expect him to say.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Only if I can ask _you_ one." I fire back without even thinking about it. The grin he throws my way at my response is unnerving and dangerous. He looks pleased with himself, like I've fallen into his trap.

I need to bite my tongue, because once we get to talking, firing pointed barbs back and forth with ease, it can go on for a while, it leads to other things. Hell, the first time we kissed was to shut us both up.

"That works for me." He smiles and again, he doesn't give me a chance to respond. " _Harley_?"

The inflection he puts on my name makes me sigh way more loudly than last time, I don't even try to hide the sound, and before he can even _ask_ the inevitable question, I have to jump in.

I grumble under my breath, shifting in my seat so I can lean on my hand and stare out of the window like I did before, bored at his predictability, I expected better. "No, I am _not _named after my mom's _bike_."

He snorts and that's ... new! Snorts and then laughs and I find myself turning to watch him as he shakes his head and smiles at my response.

"Not what I was gonna say." He chuckles.

So many people make the assumption, that I suppose I've just come to expect it.

"It's ridiculous." I blurt, feeling weirdly determined to defend myself. My parents. My own freaking name. "Back, right at the start of their... _relationship._"

I make a face, and fall silent, pretty sure he knows the story of my parents ridiculous courtship, the _will they won't they_ of their lives before they got it together. Everyone does. It makes me squirm uncomfortably. Dissecting their past even in this tiny capacity makes me feel like I'm messing with something that isn't mine.

I must be quiet for too long, staring down at my hands as I quietly replay little pieces of their history in my head, because I hear him clear his throat and it startles the words right out of me.

"I guess dad mentioned... _something_ in an article about my mom's motorcycle." I usually hate explaining it, because I actually really love the truth, and it's as though I'm giving away pieces of our family story each time I'm forced to defend it.

"I can see where having a daughter named _Harley_ would cause some confusion." He hedges, raised eyebrows, wide eyes and innocent expression not lessening my response at all. It pisses me off.

I throw myself around in the seat and growl, "I mean who would name their _kid_ after a -"

I don't even get halfway through my well rehearsed and practiced rant before he cuts me off, interrupting with a wave of his hand.

I stutter to a stop when he rolls his eyes because it's as if he's dismissing all the idiots that have gone before.

He smiles and raises his eyebrows, traps him in another look that flares heat over every inch of my skin, "For the record, I _like_ your name."

My tongue feels like lead in mouth, "Thanks?"

I panic bite my lip - it's a weird habit, don't ask - and I have to turn away before he sees the god awful blush creeping up my neck to burn my cheeks.

Apparently I turn into a twelve year old whenever he says anything vaguely complimentary.

I hate being shy sometimes, I really do. I can be loud, I can be chatty, I can be noisy, dirty minded, flirtatious and obviously I've got the wherewithal to have made it this far as a rookie, but there are moments when I wish the ground would just open up and swallow me whole so it wouldn't feel like the entire world was staring at me and my beet red face.

I wait for that feeling to come with him, for the need to hide to overwhelm me, for the barriers to erect themselves as I share things, but it doesn't happen, they never come.

He looks over at me and it _still_ doesn't, in fact the only heat I feel when he looks my way is the same familiar, drugging warmth I felt right before he kissed me; when he said I had beautiful eyes and a wicked right hook.

I gnaw on my cheek and stare beyond the window.

I don't mind sharing, with _him_? What the hell is that about?

He takes the next corner a little fast and the shift and tilt of my body brings me closer to him, my eyes darting over his face to see if he noticed as I try to right myself.

If he does find anything amiss he doesn't mention it.

"Middle name's Quinn, right?" He blurts instead, turning to me and taking his eyes off the road to grin widely when my mouth falls open in shock.

I don't know if he's capable of lineal thought or not - right now it sure as hell doesn't feel like it - and I know my mind can whirl off on weird tangents at times, but I thought we were done with this topic of conversation.

Clearly I was wrong.

He's still staring at me though, and from the over eager look on his face he thinks he's got it - me - all worked out.

I don't like feeling like an open book. I like even less the idea of him thinking he's got one over on me. I don't care if it's childish, the urge to play with him, to get a rise out of him, to tease and beat him at his own game dances right through me, bringing a slow and leading smile to my face.

"I'm not named after a DC comic book villain either." I reply sweetly, hoping he can hear the undertoned yawn in my response. Again, I've been asked that before.

"What?" His high pitched yelp makes me jump and startles me into a laugh, "Really? But your dad's a huge Batman fan." I dunno how _that's_ any better than being named after my mom's bike, but he sounds so disappointed I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

"How the hell do you know that?"

"I read!" He snarks back. Turning his attention steadfastly to the road and avoiding eye contact, his cheeks pink up with embarrassment and I smile, knowing I've dented his confidence just a little. I like it, it feels like we're on an even footing for the first time tonight.

"Mmmhmm." I leave it at that and I can practically feel him vibrating with the desire to ask more questions. He braces his shoulders, stiffening across his chest to hold the wheel with one hand as the other runs through his dark hair. He palms his neck again, squeezing his shoulders as if that will help.

I make myself stare out of the window but in my peripheral I catch him throwing glances my way every so often. I last all of five minutes before his agitation gets the better of me.

"I was named after a detective, okay?"

"I didn't ask." He grouches, but he smiles sweetly and waits for more.

"Yeah, well, as my parents would say, you were not asking _very_ loudly."


	5. Chapter 5

He laughs.

Laughs at my comment, at the images it presents of my parents, at me.

He laughs and it totally transforms his face. He looks younger, fresher and - I hold my breath as I think it - cute. When he laughs everything about him becomes lighter. His eyes change color in the darkness of the car, flood with warmth, and when he glances over at me, still grinning, the way his gaze catches and holds onto mine is _magnetic_.

I don't know how else to describe it. That look pulls me in, keeps me there, staring back. I bite down on my lip and try to look away, but not more than a second after we break contact my eyes dart back to him, drawn to his smile.

This is bad. This is so bad.

He laughs at the idiosyncrasies of my family, giving up this deep, throaty sound of pleasure that makes me shiver. Makes me ache. It races through my body so fast that I have to hold myself still so I don't reach for him.

Is it weird that I like that he enjoys a little of my family's craziness, even at a distance?

It feels _good_.

Warmth spreads through me as I watch him and maybe I should feel conflicted, but I don't. I wait for the feeling of guilt and inconsistency to catch up to me. I've been so resistant to him and how he makes me feel all night, for weeks if I'm honest, yet _now_ I'm letting him get to me?

Somewhere inside I should want to put a stop to this. I should be focused on my mom and my dad and my family as a whole. But all I can think about are their stories and the near misses. Their million _what if_ moments, thrown together in times of adversity just to prove that, no matter what else happened or came their way, they could rely on each other.

Is this _that_?

Maybe. Maybe not all of it, nowhere near as strong or as obvious. It's not tigers or bombs or falling off buildings. Maybe it's falling of a different kind, I don't know.

Could this be the start of it?

If I've learned anything from my parents, my family, the job itself, it's that you've got to grab onto the light in the dark _wherever_ you find it.

I don't understand why it's with _him, _why having him at my side makes it better or easier or allows me a brief respite to smile even knowing my mom's been shot, but I decide not to question it anymore, at least for tonight. He's allowing me to dig deep and find the courage to keep going, granting me a reprieve from grief and, for the moment, I'm going to take it.

"So?" He persists when I fall quiet, lost in my own head, his voice a pleasantly annoying tug at my subconscious, "A detective? Was she a friend of the family?"

Oh, we're still on the name thing? I'd almost forgotten. His face is alight, latent humour and eager grin all aimed in my direction. It could be that that disarms me, could be his kindness this evening or just me seeking another excuse to distract myself and talk to him.

"He! And no." I smile, I know perfectly well what he's doing, even with the added bonus of his unending curiosity he's not really mastered the art of subtlety. He's keeping me distracted as we drive - I've had the family support counselling too. I know the techniques and the open ended, leading questions to put someone at ease.

The truth is it's nice, oddly, it stops me staring at my watch like I can make the hands move faster. And though it's the last thing I'd want to admit, to him or anyone else, it keeps me from thinking too much about what's waiting for us at the hospital.

Us, because the idea of walking in there alone sends fear through me like shards of ice and it forces me to swallow past the lump of panic that rises in my throat. Us, because right now I'm not sure I could do this without him.

Besides, I breathe slowly, letting the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me subside, it feels like he's genuinely interested in the stupid origin story of my name. In my family. In _me_.

I don't know what to do with that information, its implications or the silly butterfly dance that erupts in my stomach because of it.

"It's also _Quin,_" I blurt, attempting to drown out my inner voice with my outer one. Mom says I'm good at that, take after my dad with the chatty side of my personality. I don't think she realises that when she's comfortable with someone, or passionate about something, hell even when she's mad, she becomes this vibrant, animated person. Bubbling up and making us all fall silent. She's chatty too, even if she won't admit it, or doesn't see it in herself, and thinking of her now leaves me warm and cold at the same time.

"One 'N' not two." I say quietly, waiting him out, watching when his eyes flash to mine, his mouth falling open. I can practically see his brain tick over, little cogs whirring away, knowing he's trying to put the pieces together and failing miserably. That he's taken in my change of expression and now he's watching, waiting for the worry to start to mask my features again.

Seriously, having no poker face sucks.

He makes the most ridiculous sound of confusion and I shouldn't laugh but it's actually pretty funny. A piglet snort of annoyance. He fumbles, words a mess when he speaks, and I give up and press my fingers to my lips as I giggle.

"Oh, yeah - because - wait - I don't get it." He finally admits, reluctantly, "should I -?"

"Harley Quin." I shrug, not in anyway astounded that it's gone over his head. "Agatha Christie?"

He scrunches his face, lips pulling into a pout. Not a clue at all and he hates it.

"My parents like books."

I shrug at my own casual understatement. My parents _like_ books the same way I _like_ chocolate in times of high stress, in that I can't get enough of it, guzzle it down and end up with it smeared all over my face and fingertips. They _devour_ literature like they need it to survive but I don't know how to explain that to him without sounding insane. Or like I was hatched in the lair of a pair of bookworms - even if that's actually not that far from the truth.

And though explaining to him may make me sound deranged, my parents even more so, there's a part of me that really wants to try. I'm starting to like sharing with him, like the thinking out loud moments that drag up pictures of my mom when I was younger, images in my head that keep me sane as we draw nearer to the hospital.

"So?"

"My mom read a lot anyway," I start, not meeting his eyes, which is a good thing as I keep forgetting he's supposed to have them on the road, not me, "but, when she was pregnant, dad said she _craved fiction the same way some women crave weird food_." I mock his voice unintentionally, making faces as I do.

The way my mom does.

I can see her so clearly, wide smile, pleased with herself for teasing dad, for the way his cheeks flush and he pretends to look sad or hurt so she'll soothe him. I can see her so clearly - delighting in his antics, bridging the distance between them with a soft touch - that she could be sitting right next to me.

I freeze when he laughs, remembering suddenly that she's not.

For a moment I forgot he was there, and then for a split second I lose my train of thought all over again watching him laugh and drive.

It's starting to make me feel sick, this rollercoaster of an emotional day, the flip flopping back and forth between him and my mom. What tonight should have been, _could_ have been, and what it actually is. All of it is making my head spin.

I rest my head back on the seat and watch him through the side sweep of my hair as it falls across my face - an unintentional shield this time.

He has a casual, quiet confidence that - while I'm alone with him and he's not actively trying to get a rise out of me - is not at all grating. He's different from the arrogant jerk that kicked his feet up on my stool at the bar. He feels more like a friend and someone I trust.

"So your mom picked it?" He persists and I wonder if the cop in him works the same way as the one in me, needing the details, wanting the truth. The story. Maybe it's something inherent in all of us, that _yearning_ for the tale.

"He'd go to bookstores." I say quietly because it still feels strange to tell this story to someone else. To rewrite my parents history for a person outside of our family to imagine. Strange in a good way. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Strange in a good way.

"She liked the smell of the older books, the feel of the paper." I smile as I remember, "she said he'd come home with three or four a day sometimes, set them up in piles in the bedroom or his office, for her to find." I laugh suddenly as the memory of a story dad told me pops into my head. I get excited and the words spill out in a rush, "One time, about a week before I was born, she spun around and didn't see a stack of them on the edge of the table. She had this great big belly blocking her view."

"She knocked them over?"

I laugh, god I've heard this story so many times, but I don't do it justice, no one tells it better than my parents, competing back and forth for the final word. Bickering, flirting, kinda disgustingly in love with each other every time they tell it.

"No, she told dad _I_ did, that I was judging his taste already. She'd do that a lot, pretend it was me talking in these funny voices to mock him. She's silly and-"

I stumble to a stop, open my mouth, but there is suddenly _nothing_ left in me to say. I can't find the right words to explain to him what my mother is, _how_ she is. She's silly and kind and thoughtful, she's terrifying and my best friend and probably the strongest person I know. She's embarrassing and I hate when she teases me until I blush. I love her for it too. I love the quiet wisdom she possesses and how something as simple as her stroking her fingers along my hand - a soft smile on her lips - will comfort me like nothing else. She's -

"She's your mom." He states quietly, and just like that I know he understands.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** One more after this, thank you for reading and reviewing. Happy weekending xx

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><p>We drive in silence for a while. It's probably the quietest I've ever known him to be, yet his presence alone is enough to bring me back to myself.<p>

"There's a book by Agatha Christie." I say slowly, blinking hard against the burn of my eyes. Talking to him, finding my voice, is harder now but not impossible. The words come out croaky, but I persist, pulling memories up and sifting through them slowly before I pass them off to him. "The Love Detectives?"

He raises an eyebrow, shakes his head to tell me he doesn't know it, hasn't heard of it and I shrug and carry on regardless, "It's high up on a shelf in my dad's office. Every mention of my name in that book is highlighted in yellow marker," I smile, speaking softly and as soon as I think of the pages crumpled with love, I'm there, at home. I can smell the leather of the bound edging and I feel the book beneath my fingertips, knowing the ink's probably faded by now, smudges gray, even if the memory still shines bright.

"The first time my mom showed me, she blushed. She defaced that book and loved every minute of it, said it was boring, but my name grabbed her attention, kept pulling her back in."

He doesn't speak but I know he's listening, know he's watching me, maybe even trying to picture it, because I know the person I'm talking about is so far removed from what he's heard of Katherine Beckett, what he expects.

I laugh.

"I was tiny and I remember crawling into her lap, twisting the ends of her hair between my fingers. Dad teased her," I smile down at my fingers as they move against each other, remembering the soft feel of each strand through my tiny hands, the warmth of her arm around my belly, "he called her a sentimental sap and she said she'd been married to him for too long because he -" my smile falls away, my voice barely more than a whisper and cracking on every word, " - he'd rubbed off on her so much."

I feel his fingers brush the back of my hand and I look up.

"I'm sure she's gonna be fine." He says softly, and it's sweet that he tries to reassure me when we both know he has about as much idea of what we're walking into as I do.

He cuts the engine and I breathe out heavily closing the door of the car. Our eyes lock before we turn as one and look up at the hospital. I don't pull away when he moves around the vehicle to my side and reaches out to take my hand again.

"I guess we'll find out."

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><p>"Why that character?" He asks as we step into the elevator. He lets go of my hand when I press the button and I shouldn't feel the loss of it as keenly as I do.<p>

"Hmm?" I thrust my hands into my pockets, wondering what awaits, not just me but my whole family, when the doors reopen.

"Harley Quin?" He persists, keeps me talking, not thinking, "Why him, why not -" He waves his hand, looking for a name that he doesn't know, "Any one of the other characters in the book?"

"She liked the description," I shrug, trying not to let pride in my origin taint my words, "he was mysterious, something about extraordinary skill and instinct." I smile and swallow past the heavy thud of my heart, adding quickly, "Plus it was unisex and I guess they wanted to keep me a surprise."

"You certainly are that." He mutters so quietly I'm not sure I even heard it.

"What?"

He flushes and clears his throat, "Nothing."

I start to speak again but the doors open and he takes my hand again. This time I don't even question the relief that I feel, I'm just grateful for it. I've seen dad do it for mom a thousand times and I never knew the feeling of someone's palm pushed up against my own could be so calming.

I can't breathe for a second, my heart racing, the thick weight of my borrowed leather jacket suddenly too heavy, too tight, but he pulls me out after him, letting go of my hand without question once I'm beyond the elevator. I try to catch his eye as as we walk toward the nurses station, try to convey my thanks with a look, not convinced I succeed. But my words are trapped somewhere within that gnawing pit of my stomach. We're too far away for me too feel reassured she's okay and yet, too damn close for comfort.

The floor my mom is on is bright and cheery, too bright for me and my head pounds harder. The woman behind the desk stands as we approach and even though I repeat my name twice, she insists on I.D. After a little persuasion - nothing to do with me because after a few seconds I would quite like to rip her head off - she ushers us down the hall. The nurse reminds us again not to stay too long, leaving us at the door and -

My legs buckle when I hear her voice.

I steady myself on the door-frame, glad my gasp remains silent, and take a step back, not wanting them to see me this freaked out. I can't make my body move that far away. It simply refuses.

The relief at the sound of my moms voice is indescribable and I start to shake. I feel his hand land heavy on my shoulder, his chest at my back as he steadies me and I turn into the warmth of his body. When his fingers drop to my hip I seek out his hand, claiming it, and I squeeze his fingers tight within my own.

Where I'm standing I can hear her voice, the tone and pitch, the rumble of annoyance, and it's _music_ to my ears.

She's arguing with dad, not the kind of knock down drag out fight that leads to slamming doors and pillows on the couch, this is too familiar. I slump against him and tip my head back until I can feel his warm breath ghost past my ear. I close my eyes when they burn hotly, squeeze them tight and feel the snaking movement of his arm around my waist as I try not to cry, listening to the background music of my childhood.

They sound like _them_.

With my eyes closed I could be a teenager in the back of the car on a weekend drive to the beach. I could be five, sitting on the stairs as they work with each other in the kitchen. I could be eight, swinging my feet in mom's chair at the twelfth as they move around the murder board. Together.

My brother calls it a choreography, a dance, and in this moment I can see it perfectly, I can _hear_ it in the way they speak.

They bicker and my fingers ache as I squeeze his hand, the brush of his thumb a soft counterpoint as we stand in the hallway and listen. He hums at my ear as my mom speaks again.

"Castle, stop fussing with the pillows, they were fine where they were."

"After all these years you think _this_ is when I stop fussing? With you captive in bed and unable to escape?"

"You've had me captive in bed a million times, you've never been this fussy."

"Usually I have other things to focus on. And you've never been -"

"If you say '_shot before' _I'm gonna call the grumpy nurse back in here to check you for dementia."

"Ouch, Kate, playing the age card? Low blow," there's a pause, "You sure you're feeling okay?"

There's a grumble and I know she's giving him a look, _the_ look, I don't even have to open my eyes to see it, but I do when his fingers run down the outside edge of my wrist.

My eyes startle open and I turn to meet his gaze and he's smiling at me, clearly enjoying the show. I roll my eyes, yeah, my parents are weird, and

they think they're cute, deal with it.

He smiles.

And yes, okay, I'm leaning all over him and he's clearly enjoying that too.

I push myself upright, shrug him loose and turn my head away before he can see the heat flood my cheeks. This time he doesn't give up my hand easily. When I tug my fingers as if attempting to free them he squirms back into my grasp, knocks his hip into mine, frowns, and nods towards the door.

My heart isn't racing now - well it is, but not with worry - I can breathe that little bit deeper without it feeling like a vice is tightening around my chest. I should knock, but I can't bring myself to interrupt.

They're dressed up, I keep forgetting they were on their way to my grandmother's benefit. Dad's shirt sleeves are rolled up his arms and his jacket across the end of the bed as if he's trying to warm up mom's feet.

She's pale in the fluorescent light, the starkness of the sheets and walls making her look small and vulnerable.

He's fussing, touching her here and there, smoothing the sheet across her lap trying to hide the fact his hands are shaking. I don't miss it and neither does my mother.

"Castle." She touches his face when he drops his head, not wanting to look at her and it's unbelievably hard to watch them like this, hurting and human, but I can't look away.

Mom strokes her thumb across his jaw until he looks up and when he does she smiles, "Rick, I'm fine."

"You got shot - again." He whispers, his hand covering hers where it sits on his cheek. The way they look at each other is something I've never seen before, there is pain there, it's something I must have missed as a child because the fear and worry etched across my dad's face look like memory and reflection.

I know the stories. Growing up, with my parents being the people they are, of course I've heard them. Dad's version, mom's, even my aunts and uncles have thrown their own take of events in to flesh out the tale. But right now I'm seeing it play out - fiction made fact - and my heart... _hurts_ for them.

I don't know how many times they've watched each other almost die, go missing, be taken hostage, only to recover and rebuild. I've lost count over the years, but watching them together I can see each invisible scar left behind dulled down to a thin silver line by their love.

It's beautiful, and terrifying, to see.

Dad reaches for her and leans in close so she doesn't have to move, his forehead resting against hers.

"It's just a scratch." Mom says quietly, because that's what she does, downplaying the seriousness to protect him, trying to take the pain away.

"You didn't even get to give your speech." Dad whispers and mom laughs - this tired, grateful sound that only my dad can get her to make. "Gotta stop doing this to me, Beckett."

Mom and I both smile when he calls her that and she kisses him hard, harder than I need to be seeing, but I can't tear my eyes away.

I love them so much I ache with it, so much all this rookie crap of being initiated into their world is suddenly less daunting. I'm their kid after all. This should be a piece of cake.

"I know, babe, I'm sorry." She holds his face with her one good hand, shifting so I finally notice the way her arm's strapped across her chest. Dad touches the cast so lightly and I'm so focused on his attention to the cast on her arm that I don't even notice mom watching me until she speaks.

"Castle," she demands, looking me over and finding whatever she sees in my face shocking, "what the hell did you do to our kid?"


	7. Chapter 7

I all but collapse into the room once I know they've seen me. I can barely lift my feet to cross the floor but I get there, tripping, dragging myself closer to my mom. Her uninjured arm is raised already, waiting to pull me to her chest. She gives the best hugs, tight and hard, almost no escape and Dad steps back as I fit in between them, his hands landing on my shoulders.

Absolute relief pummels me.

She's alive.

Alive, and apparently pissed off with my father. I smile into her neck and inhale deeply because it feels amazing to have this _normality_ and actually a small part of me is kinda mad at him too. He couldn't have given me a heads up it wasn't life threatening?

"Castle, what the hell?"

"You were shot." He defends, stepping back from me and dragging a hand through his more salty than peppered hair. It shows then and it catches my breath, his age, his concern, the way he tries to hold himself together and then gives up when he just can't.

"In the arm," she winces, lifting the cast, still holding me tight with the other arm.

"I didn't know that," he says quietly moving around to the other side of the bed, sitting just out of reach enough that she'll have to stretch to pull him back. I see it for what it is, what it's always been, he gives her space and the choice to be close. Mom snags his hand and smiles when he groans as he stands, shuffling closer, and whatever else is happening between them she keeps that connection, watches his face closely for a moment before she nods and strokes his skin.

He's forgiven everything, anything. It bounces back from his eyes too, forgiveness, concern, love. I watch them from under the curl of mom's arm, bathing in it. The feeling of home and safety when they're like this knitting me back together. Maybe I am twelve years old in shiny new shoes today, curled up in the cocoon of my parents affection. They still called when they needed me.

"Are you okay?" I ask when I can't take it anymore, "What happened?" I look between them for answers that are slow in coming, "Dad said you didn't get to give your speech? That wasn't why you got shot? Not the Senator thing?"

"No," mom sighs, winces, and ushers me onto the bed so I'm level with dad, "nothing to do with that, it was a fluke." She shrugs as if it's nothing, nothing at all for anyone to be worried about because _she's fine_, and that's so not the point.

I open my mouth to argue but my dad beats me to it. His hand lands on mine where it sits on the bed and he levels me with a look. I know that face, that expression, the way his eyes darken and his forehead crinkles. It's one he used to use a lot when we were growing up, when I'd fight with my brother.

_Pick your battles._

"We were on our way to the benefit, pulled up at the lights and she heard a shot," Dad doesn't takes his eyes off mom the entire time he speaks. "Jumped out of the car."

"It was instinct." Mom growls and clearly they've had this argument before. Actually I think I've heard it more than once. The conflict between being a cop and protecting yourself and my dad's hardly one to judge given how readily he'll throw himself in front of any of us. Maybe it's just that I get it more now. I don't know.

They speak at the same time, no anger just words thrown back and forth.

"You're not a cop anymore Kate you -"

"I know but I was one for tw-"

"Should have stayed in the car."

"Oh, you cannot seriously be telling _me_ to stay in the car after all the years I-"

"I'm gonna go."

My parents shut up almost immediately and that's a skill I've only ever credited to Lanie before now. I turn to face him, find him leaning in the doorway looking like he's interrupting a moment far more intimate than he actually is.

He looks sheepish, an intruder on the outside because he doesn't know that this for them, and me, is normal. They bicker and my heart skips a merry beat because of it. _Our_ normal feels good after the last few hours of worry and fear.

"Logan?" I flush knowing straight away my parent's eyes are on me and in the middle of this crazy manic day they are gonna revert to that mode of parental embarrassment I have somehow managed to avoid since I was sixteen.

Mom sits up straighter when I say his name. "_This_ is Logan?" Her eyes catch mine as I turn and stare and beg her silently to not give away the fact I've mentioned him before.

"He gave me a ride." I will my face not to blush. Of course it doesn't listen.

"Yeah," he steps into the room, green eyes dancing as they find mine. Crap. He's just gonna start assuming I've said nice things about him, paid him compliments and spoken about our kiss. He's not wrong, I may have mentioned him once or twice in passing, but the barely restrained grin makes me narrow my eyes and bite my tongue.

He holds his hand out to dad when he stands, and they shake.

"Richard Castle."

"Jack Logan."

They shake for a second or two before he's turning back to me and mom. She's already waving her hand at him, smiling, ignoring the fact he looks a little star struck. My mom's got a reputation, dad has too really, highest solve rate the department has ever seen.

Mom smiles and ignores it. She's used to the glassy eyed fan experience, not just by association because of dad, her own, and she shakes her head as she introduces herself with a simple, "Kate."

Their fingers connect and Logan looks between my parents for a moment before he stammers.

"Yes, Beck- Mrs - ma'am ugh, Sir?" He shrugs and my dad laughs loudly, clapping him on the back as I groan. That whole floor opening up, swallowing me whole _thing_ is starting to look appealing again.

"S'ok son," he smiles, looking between mom and Logan with a mischievous glint, "I still have moments like that and we've been married for -" he trails off as if he's forgotten.

Mom bristles in the bed, "Oh, you better remember how long we've been married, all the hassle I had getting you to the altar."

She rolls her eyes, blinks at Logan, then at me, "I'm fine, you guys should go home." She catches my eye, glares at me before I can argue, but thankfully Logan does it for me.

"Was it a drive by? Did you call it in?"

Dad makes a noise of triumph and mom growls under her breath, but her glare turns away from me, focusing on the men as she huffs and attempts to sit up.

"Speculation at this point, but yes I called it in," she's indignant, the questioning of her cop skills not going down well at all, even though dad is standing behind Logan preening at the fact someone else is asking the relevant questions and getting _the look_. "Ryan's on it."

Logan and I both startle at the mention of the captain.

"Didn't he want you to-?"

"I was supposed to call him."

We speak at the same time and mom pushes me from the bed, shoos me almost, and I see her and dad sharing a look. Sometimes they do this eerie silent communication thing. Like now, it's all eyebrows and jaw tilts and subtle inflections with their eyes as they look at each other, look at us and then back again.

Mom smiles and, oh no, dad does too. They're either gonna say something embarrassing or start making out and I can't decide which would be worse.

"Call Kev," Mom says quietly " - now get out of here. And you, take my daughter for decent coffee, not this hospital sludge -" she looks pointedly at me, speaking before I can, " - don't argue -" she looks back at Logan, " - and don't let her talk you into any of that soy, chai crap, she needs caffeine and -"

"I know her order." He nods, and I swear if I could gag him I would. It's like moths to a flame, vivid cheek staining red flames, the reaction of my parents immediate. And embarrassing. Totally saw it coming.

"Oh, really?" Dad's head snaps up and he stares at Logan from head to toe, a more thorough, appraising look, before he looks back at me and smiles. His eyes crinkling around the edges when they catch my mom's and - oh crap - she's positively beaming too. It's that one smile she has that just makes you want to grin right back at her, makes you want to share in whatever brought that look to her face and growing up I saw it almost everyday. There's no lessening effect over time. Damn them both, they make me laugh.

I cover my cheeks and groan, "Don't even -", fighting the natural smile response because I'm suddenly fourteen again and on my first date and, the whole ground opening, swallowing thing needs to happen now, please!

Mom takes pity on me and smacks dad in the chest with the back of her good hand, grimacing when she remembers the I.V she's still attached too.

"Gimme a kiss and get out," She demands, holding out her arm, so I have no choice but to comply. "Call your Uncle's." I nod, wrap my arms around her again, kiss her cheek and tell her I love her. "And call your brother," she hums in my ear, just for me "tell him I'm fine before he hops on a plane, he won't believe it if dad tells him, but-"

"I will." I promise as I stand, knowing what she means. He'll take my word for it because I love having him back and if I'm the one telling him to stay gone, he'll know she's okay.

I step back to cuddle in with my dad, watching over his shoulder as mom smiles and shakes Logan's hand again.

"He seems ... interested." Dad mumbles into my ear.

"Don't you mean _interesting_." I growl, squeezing him tight and feeling the way he shakes with silent laughter. They're evil, my parents, in the middle of all this they're laughing and joking and teasing me.

I love it.

"I know what I mean," dad holds me for a moment, buries his face in the crook of my neck and sighs heavily, "thank you, Harley."

I swallow thickly because what am I supposed to say to that? Anytime dad? Always? He knows that. Of course he does and he jiggles me on the spot, setting me back down on my feet, then pushing me toward the door. "Get out, I need to be alone with my wife."

I scrunch my nose and shake my head feeling weird because I _don't_ feel weird. Whatever part of me that was in pieces and tearing itself up before has been put together in their presence. My mom's okay, mad and mussed and the soft grey dress I helped her pick out for my grandmother's benefit is ripped along one arm, covered in blood and stuffed into a plastic bag by the bed. But it could be worse, it could be so much worse.

She's okay.

I drift back to Logan's side, a little sad to be leaving them, ignoring the fact my parents are already kissing.

When we make it out into the hall I know my face is burning, but I'm so happy I don't care. I laugh, the first proper laugh I've felt since we were at the bar this evening drinking, and turn to him, to say thank you for all he's done. Instead I can't stop myself when I blurt out, "D'you really know my coffee order?"

"Mocha latte, one sugar, with foam." He grins and looks so pleased with himself that I groan, covering my eyes, he really is the most annoyingly _sweet_ person I have ever met.

He leaves me standing there in the hospital corridor, stepping into the elevator and turning on the spot obviously expecting me to have caught up. I haven't moved, I can't seem to coordinate my feet and my brain and the pounding of my heart. The joy that's still surging through my blood is not helping, neither is the rush of adrenalin I feel that suddenly makes me brave.

He stares back at me like I've lost my mind, I don't know what the hell he sees play across my face but he waits me out, one hand on the door holding it open and the other gesturing for me to hurry up.

His eyes lock on mine and I smile, feeling more like me than I have in hours, maybe even weeks, and I dawdle deliberately to annoy him.

"Castle." He shouts, loudly, "Are you coming, or what?"

It's their laughter that does it. Laughter that spills out of my mom's room, out of me because of his words. It drives me forward, picks up my feet and I slam into him, pushing him back inside the elevator quickly.

I touch his face, his smile and surge up to claim his mouth. It's nothing at all like our first kiss. No hesitancy, no questions. No rookies here.

And I can feel it.

This is it. This is just the beginning.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thank you Jessie for being my sounding board for this idea. Thank you all for coming on this strange little journey with me, for letting Harley into your heart a little bit with each chapter, I'm am forever blown away by the response and the kindness people show anything I ever write here. This one, much like the first, will hold a special place in my heart, hugs you all.

we're on the final stretch of our bid to raise money for #ThankYouTerri on twitter or www . YoungStoryTellers . com (slash) thankyouterri (slash) it ends tonight at midnight (US time) if you're so inclined please consider a donation to this wonderful cause.


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